


Mistake

by sasha_b



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-19
Updated: 2011-09-19
Packaged: 2017-10-23 21:27:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A knight convalesces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistake

**Author's Note:**

> with apologies to George R. R. Martin.

Too many gods, not enough time to speak to them. Not that they would listen.

The knight shakes his head. He has no time for gods. His goatee has grown in, his body thin and muscles shrunk and wasted. He hobbles a bit still, the crutch under his arm an annoyance but necessary – for now.

The beginning of winter drapes itself over the garrison, a long gone lover that’s returned unexpectedly and unwanted, long arms and wandering hands spread in a widening arc, taking over everything and everyone in its vicinity. He shivers once but the green padded coat is enough; the smell of incense reaches his nostrils and he coughs, spitting to the side.

The chapel is empty this late at night; the knight gimps past it, the smoke from the brazier near the door drifting around his head before rising through the snow fat sky. He ignores it as he ignores the calls of the soldiers he passes, some wanting dice, some wanting sword play. He winks at one whore that calls his name, but continues on, his goal not far, but a seeming mile in his current condition.

His leathers fit easily over his bound calf; the wound is healing well, albeit way too slowly for his taste. The fever had taken time and time again to leave him, and he has been out of bed for only three days. Had one of the other knights or gods forfend Arthur caught him out…

Old boots cover his feet and legs and the jacket, thick and ancient, hangs on his frame, his tunic and mail shirt swinging beneath it. At much pain he decided to leave his blades behind. He’d whispered to them as he left his room, promising practice and blood the moment he could give it. For now the short Spanish dagger at his waist would have to do.

Skeletal trees dot the grounds of the sad little cemetery. They are ice coated and sway with the wind, his hair blowing around his face in a mockery of their movement. He allows it its way and stops when he passes the mound with no sword, the flame flickering in the wind, a tiny red thing in a sea of white and grey.

Narrowing his eyes, the knight thinks of many things and nothing as he watches the fire that marks Uther Castus’ grave. He could say much or no words; he feels the choice should be Uther’s son’s and not his. He moves on after a moment of blinking and standing, the icy air freezing into bits inside his warm lungs, crackling sounds echoing in his ears as he breathes.

He reaches Cei’s grave, a small mound on the other side of a rise, the fallen man’s sword stuck in the ground, the hilt time worn and tarnished. He sets his crutch on the ground next to him, and sits his slender bottom on the frozen, dead grass, face pinching from the pain the movement causes him.

The men in his unit have been out twice since his injury, and he’s stopped arguing with Arthur about the injustice and danger of leaving him, Arthur’s best sword and lieutenant, behind. He figures it for a lost cause now, but the next time…he’s going, wound or not. It is healing, he’s not feverish, and he’s bored to tears and realizing just what it is, the only thing, he can do and is good at in this existence.

Camboglanna is quiet far in front of him, though he knows the sounds in his mind, knows what night is like there. Ravens caw like mad women in the tree above him, and he chances a glance at one as it lands near him, perhaps mistaking him for a dead man, come to say his final goodbye to the physical.

A smile twists his face, forming a gruesome, jackal headed demon out of a simple injured knight. He grimaces once as he rubs his leg, the raven cocking its head as it watches him, bright beady eye searching for life left in the pile of rags that makes up Arthur’s best swordsman. He coughs, and the bird takes flight, screeching, angry that its meal of dead flesh has the audacity to move.

The trees, their newly ice coated branches tinkling behind him, wave in the wind, the moon dancing in and out of their blackness. He hunches over himself, watching the grave but seeing the fight that he’d been injured in. Seeing the mistakes he made, seeing the sword that had taken the chunk out of his calf, seeing Arthur’s face as he’d made sure the Woad was down after the enemy had taken blood from his knight.

And then he blinks and can see nothing except for Arthur, worry etched into the man’s brow, anger in his words at the medicus who can’t bring the fever down. A snort vibrates the knight’s nose; he wipes at it with the back of his hand, long fingers, tapered and empty. He flexes them, misses his blades, and hates himself for the mistake he’d made in putting himself in this place.

The moon is high and the trees have stopped their movement – the wind has died down – and he stands, most of his weight on his left leg, picking up the crutch and whispering good sleep in his native tongue to Cei’s moldering, tiny grave. He follows the path back past Uther’s spot, eyes not deigning to find it this time, boots scraping on the iced and dying ground.

The garrison is quieter now, most of the soldiers and knights either in their cups, drunk and asleep, drunk and with whores, or just drunk. He likes it this quiet; the crows that roost on the stables watch him, but he watches them as well, and they make no move toward him. They stay silent, hunched inky dots fat against the winter clouds as he slips through the cobbled fortress, silent, sliding, ghostlike and aimless.

He passes the chapel and Arthur falls into step with him, a brazen broad form, smelling of the hated incense, sweat, horses and leather and warmth and security.

That last bit the knight ignores, chalking the sentiment up to being ill and injured and the fever.

“I would have gone with you, had I known you’d wanted some time out of bed.”

“Then it wouldn’t have been much fun, as I had wanted some time alone out of bed.”

Arthur rubs his stubbled face, the shadow that is always there darker this time of night. “It’s not time for you to be out and about, especially with the wind.”

“Winter is coming, Arthur, which we can do nothing about. I am no use to you lying abed, and at this rate, I’m liable to go insane before I heal. The wind won’t kill me. It hasn’t in the ten years I’ve been here.”

He coughs again, shuddering inside his green coat, and Arthur squints at him, a hand reaching out to catch his elbow.

“Don’t think about it.”

A sigh; their captain is nothing if not patient, but this particular knight is –

“Lancelot. Why must you be obstinate?”

“Arthur. Why must you be predictable?”

Lancelot turns when they reach the door to the knight’s quarters. “If you really want to help me, you can find me a bottle of the best red in the garrison and bring it to me tomorrow night.” The corner of his mouth turns up, the jackal replaced briefly with the man Arthur knows to be honest and true and strong and oh so hidden when hurt.

He enters the hallway that leads to his door. “Tomorrow. Red. And some honey cakes too.”

Arthur catches a flash of the grin, smells a whiff of leather, dirt, must and healing flesh, and then the knight is gone to his bed, where he should be.

The captain of the foreign conscripts makes his way across the courtyard, the crows that live on the stables cawing loudly at his passing. He waves his hands and they scatter, wings spread, shadows covering the moon and the cloud filled sky. Winter is here, he thinks, his boots ringing on the stones, thoughts on his lieutenant, eyes on the empty garrison, cloak falling around his large shoulders as he walks.

Arthur passes the chapel and then backtracks after a moment, entering the incense filled place, and sets his knees on the cold stone.

Only one God, and not enough time to speak to Him. Not that He’ll listen.

Arthur prays anyway.


End file.
